Trump Tower (35 page)

He shook his head. “Alicia, these are mythical creatures.”

“Finfolk kidnap fishermen. What if they've kidnapped Farmer?”

“Mythical creatures can't kidnap anyone because they don't exist. That's why they're called . . . mythical.”

“You don't understand anything.”

“I understand some things . . .” He reached for her under the water again. “Did you say ah yet?”

“Hey.” She moved his hand away, “Gimme . . .” and took the page back. “It says here . . .” She looked for the line she wanted to read . . . “they disguise themselves as sea animals, plants, or even floating clothes.”

“Well then . . .” He took a deep breath and nodded, reassuringly, “The mystery is solved. All you have to do is find an old man being held captive by a geranium bush and pile of wet undershirts.”

“Stop it. Listen to this.” She read, “Worshipping the creature during the Middle Ages, the Finfolkmen . . .” She reminded him, “those are the religious people, not the mythical creature who are just Finfolk . . .” then continued reading, . . . “evolved a belief in the power of the sea and left the Orkney Islands, landing in northern New Brunswick, Canada, where they established a small religious colony. By the end of the following century, some of them had migrated west to establish a second religious colony on the shores of Lake Superior, along Michigan's Upper Peninsula.”

Carson wasn't having it. “This mythical creature they worship . . . if they're not from Finland, why aren't they called Orkneyfolkmen?”

“You're impossible.”

He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “But loveable.”

“This is important to me.”

“Okay. I'm all ears.” He made that face again, but this time he pushed his ears forward.

Alicia disregarded him. “They don't worship mythical creatures. These are Christians who believe they are derived from a mythical creature and, accordingly, deny both the Roman and Episcopal glossary.”

He stared at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means . . . that's why they had to flee England.”

“Sorry to be pedantic but . . . the Orkneys are part of Scotland. And Scotland isn't England.”

“You are being pedantic.”

“I already apologized for being pedantic. It's just that thinking Scotland and England are the same place can get you into big trouble in Thurso.”

She scowled at him and put the heel of her foot back in his groin. “And thinking that you're not going to listen to what I have to say can get you into big trouble in little Mr. Carson-land.”

He raised his arms. “I surrender.”

“Wise move.” She pulled her foot away, found another page and read, “They shun contacts with all but their own, maintaining a secretive and closed community dedicated to their own purist rendition of the bible, which predates
King John. They believe in honoring God, country, hard toil, and their elders. Every young man is expected to serve in the military before returning to the community to marry and propagate.”

“Ah . . .” Carson smiled, leaned forward, and reached under the water. “Speaking of propagating . . .”

She brought her knees up and moved as far away from him as she could get in the big tub. “Listen . . .”

“If I pretend to listen, then can we propagate?”

“You fake listening,” she warned, “and I fake propagating.”

“Deal.” He sat back in the tub. “I'm listening.”

She thumbed through several pages. “Here . . . Farmer, who was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, is known to have spent summers in the Upper Peninsula as a child at his grandfather's cabin. As Farmer's people were themselves pilgrims from England, he would have earned a certain trust among the Finfolkmen.”

“Say that again.”

She did.

He repeated, “A certain trust among the Finfolkmen.”

“That's what it says.”

He thought about that, then wondered, “Like Howard Hughes and the Mormons?”

“Yes. Exactly. These guys have cut him off from everybody. They're holding him captive. He's their prisoner. They own him.”

“Him and all his silver.”

“Duh,” she said, as if that was obvious.

“You are assuming that he's still alive. Which he probably isn't.”

“Who knows?”

“The guy hasn't been seen by anyone who isn't a mythical creature since . . .”

“No one's seen him . . . except his Finfolkmen captors.”

“If he's alive.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “if he's alive. Because they don't want anyone to see him. But does it really matter if he's alive or dead? They own his business.”

“But if he's dead, which he probably is . . .”

“. . . and if they can make people think he's alive while they're running everything, then they've become him.”

Carson decided, “So it's Howard Hughes meets the Wizard of Oz.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “The Finfolkmen
are
the Wizard of Oz.”

Now Carson shut one eye and stared at her with the other to show her he was thinking. “If the world knows Farmer is dead, his share price goes through the floor. As long as the markets think he's alive . . .”

“Now you are listening.”

“If it quacks like a yellow brick road . . .”

“That's why I love you.” She leaned out of the tub and tossed the papers on the floor, far enough away to stay dry. Then she brought her toes back to where they had been and started flicking them against him.

“Oh,” he looked at her. “Just when I start getting interested. Don't you want to talk about Finfolkmen?”

She moved onto her knees, spilling more water onto the floor, and reached for him. “Let's finfuckman, instead.”

TUESDAY

“Y
ou are okay with this?” David asked. “Right?”

“No, I am not okay with this,” Tina replied. “Wrong!”

“I'm only talking about the way I've got it set up now.”

“No. You cannot convince me.”

“Y'all said you wanted to stay separate.”

“Separate, yes. ‘Cause I know you're going to do it, no matter what I say. But I'm not okay with it, not any part of this.”

“Listen to me . . . I'm ring-fenced. I keep telling you. There can't be any fallout to you.”

“I don't know how many times I have to say it, and yet you insist on going ahead with this . . .”

He took a deep breath to show her he was exasperated with her. “I've listened to your opinion about this six times.”

“And if you keep asking me, you're going to hear it six more times. Nothing's going to change.”

“Y'all got that right. Nothing's gonna change. What I'm doing is fine. It's perfect. You're not at all involved. I'm a big boy. I got me a passport and I've had all my shots . . .”

“You're a big boy who's acting like a schmuck. What if all this goes wrong?”

“It can't.”

“Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

“Why can't y'all leave this alone?”

“Remember two weeks ago when you said the same thing about that cargo of Cuban mahogany that turned out to be maple or birch or some other kind of crap from Bangladesh?”

“Stop throwing that in my face. We'll get that money back.”

“Yeah,” she said, “when the cows come home.”

“Shit happens,” he said. “That's business.”

She waved him off. “This time David, when shit happens, I'm not sticking around long enough to tell you I told you so.”

He shook his head and went to the far side of the room to a spare desk, where he sat down at a terminal and began looking for some deals he could do.

She sat down on the other side of the room at her desk and started looking for some deals she could do.

T
INA SPOTTED
a small cargo of Sony DVD players in Honduras, about $40,000 worth, but couldn't get in fast enough and lost it.

David thought he found an oil tanker out of Lagos that was late coming into Montevideo with $28 million worth of crude, but after spending two hours trying to grab it, he discovered that Exxon had already diverted it to Port Elizabeth, South Africa.

Tina found $2.3 million worth of polycarbonate panels on their way to Dunedin, New Zealand. She bought the shipment from a trader in Cairo, sold it to another trader in Houston, and walked away with $22,400.

David spotted that trade come up on his screen and wanted to shout over to her, “Well done,” but he knew if he did, she would think he was patronizing her, so he went back to looking for something big.

Tina now got on the phone, called Fabrice over on Madison Avenue and asked him, “Any chance Martine can come by for a fast wash and a manicure?”

Fabrice must have said no, but that he would squeeze her in if she came to the salon, because David heard her say, “All right, I understand, thanks Fabrice . . . I'll be right there.”

She logged off and left without saying anything to him.

Just as well
, he thought, and went back on the hunt.

He found a $112,000 shipment of ink stranded in Colombo, Sri Lanka, looked at it closely—it was a fast in-and-out deal, the kind that Tina liked—but decided to let it go.

Then he found a cargo of newsprint, about $400,000 worth, stuck in Masqat. He disliked shipments from that part of the world because getting from there to the rest of the world meant sailing through the western Indian Ocean. With Somalian pirates all over those waters grabbing whatever they could, insurance rates were sky high. Even if he found someone to take the cargo, he'd have to guarantee delivery—which other traders were insisting on because of the pirate threat—which meant his margins would be wiped out by the inflated insurance costs.

Some traders like Asil bragged about overinsuring, hoping that the pirates would seize the ship and its cargo, but that game took too much effort for too little return, and David wasn't interested.

He left the newsprint in Masqat, started looking for something else, then thought again about the ink in Colombo. “What the hell . . .”

He bought it for $229,000, sold it for an even $240,000, and put the trade through Tina's account.

“There y'all go,” he looked at her empty desk. “That's eleven grand for doing nothing because I'm a real nice guy.”

Except, deep down, he knew she would say,
Eleven grand is not enough of an apology for being a schmuck
.

That's when Uncle RD called. “What's happening?”

“Nothing. What's up?”

“Trying to get me into a swap deal with Azerbaijan and Belarus. The Venezuelans are doing it, but the State Department might be looking down its nose at us making money for that Commie-prick Chavez. So I reckon we could move it through Mexico. Y'all still got those contacts with the Rojas brothers down there?”

“Yeah, I do,” David assured him. “No problem.”

“I'll let you know when I need you to make that call. Also, might have a small deal on some low-sulfur number-two diesel fuel. Where's the best spot?”

David clicked onto a spot-oil trading screen and ran his eyes over the numbers. “LA is slightly better than New York.”

“Gulf Coast?”

“Way distant third.”

“I'll let you know about that, too.”

“Everything all right?” David asked.

Uncle RD's voice changed. “Well . . . you tell me. I got a call from Tina. And don't you be telling her I told you, ‘cause if you do, I'll whip your ass so bad . . .”

“I know what she's calling about,” he said. “But she doesn't understand the deal.”